


take a chest and carve yourself in (hang this heart like a locket)

by Catherines_Collections



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Insomnia, Pete Wentz wears her heart on her sleeve, Pete's falling while Pat's flying & Andy and Joe are just along for the ride, Poet Pete Wentz, Retelling, Touring, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:25:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/pseuds/Catherines_Collections
Summary: Pat is starlight, bright and consuming and everything all at once, and Pete can’t touch her.So she writes her instead. Composes poems and prose and lyrics that bare herself to the world, or the parts of it that listen to them play, and hopes the meaning gets lost in translation somewhere between melody and misery..Or,Pete's a poet who meets her muse early on in the guise of starlight.





	take a chest and carve yourself in (hang this heart like a locket)

**Author's Note:**

> After 5 years on this site, it's about time I post something long.
> 
> I wrote this whole thing bingeing Folie- because it is, after all, a Love album tinged with tragedy from the point of view of Pete Wentz. Biggest inspirations: Disloyal Army of Water Buffaloes & Coffee's for Closers. Half-doomed, semi-sweet kills me Everytime.
> 
> Enjoy some gender swapped - featuring non-binary Andy! - timeline destroyed, pining, poet Pete and shining Patrick 15k words worth of fic. This holds a very special place in my heart & I really do hope you enjoy it. (Alternative title: The (too)many times Pete Wentz should have sent Joe a thank you card.)
> 
> BIG thanks to @loveinamaltshop who encouraged me in the creation of this fic. She is the best & go check out her awesome stuff.
> 
> Now: I own nothing besides the title, so please enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

>   
>  _a burning so fantastic ruin looks_  
>  _like the best story we can tell ourselves._  
>    
>                - Natalie Wee

                                                                                                           
                                                                                                       ------  


Pete’s life is broken into two stages: before Patricia Stump and after.

Whenever Pete looks back, caught somewhere between stilted band practices with Pat’s voice ringing through the room and Pete’s fingers moving with muscle memory between chords, she wonders how she ever managed the former.  


                                                                                                       ------  


The second beginning of Pete’s life starts at Joe’s hands.

Joe meets a girl at the local music store and she makes a lasting impression. One large enough that Pete hears about it for Joe herself. Joe makes it very clear she has been impressed by music-store-mystery-girl, and this is very interesting to Pete because it takes a lot for someone to impress Joe in a music shop, considering it’s basically her second home.

She tells Pete about music girl she met the day before, and the way she knew how and where to dig in the store to find the hidden gems. A clear sign mystery girl knows what she’s doing and has been doing this for a while.

Joe says, “Dude, we talked for a bit and she said she plays drums, and well. I told her we needed a drummer.”

It’s not a lie, so Pete can’t exactly be mad at Joe for it, but she’s not happy about the extension of the invite without her. Still, Pete can’t argue with Joe’s logic, and she definitely can’t argue that a band can make it without a drummer. So they decide to try out mystery girl. Only—

Apparently, Joe lost her number in the one day she had it. Pete sighs, ready to scrap the idea and forget the search when Joe smiles sheepishly and says, “I remember her name.”

They spend the next hour typing _Pat Stump —_ “So, like a tree stump?” Pete asks, only to receive a swift kick to the shins and sharp laughter at her pain — into every search engine available and the narrowing the search down to a 30 mile radius of Chicago.

“Should we try searching for her by her full name?” Joe asks, eyes on the screen typing, and Pete smirks. “Sure. Do you know it?"

Joe huffs, but doesn’t glance at her.

“Pat could be short for Patricia,” Joe offers.

"Or Patrick.” Pete cuts in, falling into Joe’s side. Joe snorts, and wedges an elbow into Pete’s side until she squeaks.

They find the address of a _Patricia Stumph_ after about an hour of searching the internet, most of their afternoon already taken, so they shrug and decide to pay a surprise visit.

Pete doesn’t know what she’s expecting when they pull into suburbia trying to find Joe’s alleged ‘music genius’. She doesn't know what she expects when they walk up to a very nice house with a nice yard and American flag waving on the porch, and still doesn’t know what she expects when Joe rings the doorbell and classical music starts echoing from inside the house.

And yet, any expectations Pete was not aware she had been holding onto are thrown out the window as the door opens to reveal a short stocky girl wearing red knee socks, shorts, and a t-shirt that looks decades old and in desperate need of a wash.

The girl is also wearing a hat, pulled down to cover what Pete suspects to be reddish blonde hair from the ends of it she can see.

It’s silent for a moment as red-hair stands in shock, eyes blown wide. For a moment they all just stand there in silent. Then something snaps as Red Hair furrows her eyebrows as she raises her head to meet Joe’s gaze and her lips twitch. Red Hair holds the door like she might slam it in their faces.

“What the hell ever happened to calling ahead?” The girl who must be Pat asks. Fury replaces initial shyness and confusion. And oh, Pete decides, she likes her already. Is that a hint of teeth Pete sees in that snarl?

“Sorry,” Joe shrugs. She doesn’t sound sorry, but the grin on her face has taken on more of an embarrassed edge. “I lost your number and we were in the neighborhood. So...”

Joe shrugs again and tries another smile.

Pat blinks, “We?”

“Oh!” Joe laughs, and moves over to reveal Pete behind her. Pete smirks and waves with her fingers. Pat pales.

“Sorry,” Joe continues, incredibly unaware of Pat’s mortification and its steady descent into further fury. “This is my friend Pete I was telling you about.”

“You never said ‘Pete’ was _Pete Wentz_ ,” Pat hisses, glaring daggers at them both. Pete doesn’t think that’s fair.

“I didn’t think it mattered.” Joe supplies easily.

Pat stares for a second longer before she sighs like she’s lost something, and moves sideways, gesturing for them to come in with a sweep of her arm. Pete can see that her eyes are blue now that she’s forced to face them and not tilting her head down trying to hide her face.

Joe walks in first, looking around wildly like she’s trying to soak up all of the aesthetic of the boring forced conformation suburbs.

“Nice socks,” Pete says with a wink as she passes through the door.

Pat growls and slams the door shut behind them. The frame rattles.

Pat leads them down to the basement, steely silent and with an unadulterated anger still burning in bright blue eyes. She takes them into a room with a drum set and Joe tries to run her hand across it with a mumbled, _sweet,_ but Pat scowls before she can and slaps her hand away.

“My mom will be home soon so let’s get this over with.”

Pete raises an eyebrow and leans into the recliner pushed against the wall, “Just how old are you?”

Pat straightens and bares her teeth, “Old enough to play the fucking drums.”

Joe cackles, and swings an arm around an obviously uncomfortable and furious Pat.

“She’s seventeen,” Joe says, shrugging. “Don’t you remember the profile we found?”

Pat makes a choking noise and pushes Joe away so fast she stumbles.

“You _searched_ me? What kind of creeps are you?”

Pat’s looking at Pete as she says it, and really Pete doesn’t think that’s fair.

Pete points at Joe, “She’s the one who lost your number.”

Joe squawks, but Pete shrugs it off and straightens against the wall, wrapping her arms across her chest, “We’re here now, alright? Since you’re obviously old enough why don’t you play for us?”

Pat still looks like she’s a push away from bursting, but then she slums and takes a seat behind the drum set. She lets out a breath. “Fine, whatever. What do you want to hear?”

Joe tells her their latest cover and Pat nods before she starts to play.

Pat’s good. Pete isn’t an idiot, she knows talent when she hears it, but something’s still missing that can’t be found in a drum beat.

“What else do you do?” Pete asks as soon as Pat finishes.

Pat shrugs and looks away, hides further beneath her hat in a strange mix of shyness and not-yet retired fury, “A little bit of everything, I guess.”

“Can you sing?”

Pat’s head snaps up and her eyes are wider than they were when she first opened the door. Pete likes this expression on her, the forced surprise and poorly buried fury.

“I-,” Pat stutters out, blushing bright red across pale white, “a little?”

“Try it.” Joe says. So Pat takes a breath and does.

She sings a few lines from one of the covers they named, and Pete watches, hypnotized. Time freezes until Pat’s voice stops and then it breaks into a million pieces before it reforms into something glistening.

“Oh you are in.” Pete says, grinning while Joe laughs, “You’re our new singer.”

Pat’s face is torn halfway between sick and excited, but she doesn’t say no, so that means she’s in.

Or, well, at least that’s what Pete tells Pat every time after when she tries to quit.  


                                                                                                       ------

 

Pat sticks around, much to Joe’s surprise and Pete’s delight.

She stays even after lyric and melody disagreements, so many band name changes, poor band practices that almost seem to do more harm than good, and fights that root back to nothing more than Pete being her touchy invasive self and Pat’s sheer fury at everything _Pete Wentz_.

Pete takes an unfair amount of joy in teasing Pat until she’s red in the face and snarling. Joe tells her she’s incredibly lucky Pat hasn’t gotten a better offer yet. Joe had laughed her ass off when Pete scowled and backed off, pushing herself away from where a growling Pat was getting into her face.

Pete books them a few shows in a couple of terrible bars. They’re on the outskirts of the city and most of the good ones are either booked solid, or laugh in her face when she calls to ask about booking.

She calls every contact she ever had from Arma, and then some- pointedly ignoring the incredible amount of sleazy voices that answer like they’re doing her a favor when they hear her voice, and hanging up as soon as they ask what they’ll be wearing when the play.

Pete researches, calls, and scours all of her sources until she’s satisfied with their booking arrangements.

Joe’s the one with the car, and thankfully it’s a van: one big enough to carry all of them and their equipment to and from shows.

Their first few shows are spent soothing Pat through low level panic attacks, and arguing with Joe if either of them are tuned right.

“Fuck it,” Joe relents, throwing her head back with a groan. Pete’s holding Pat’s face in her hands as she talks her through breathing exercises.

It’s their first show in and it’s in a less than crowded bar with a less than pleased audience, but it’s still a show and they’re going to glow. Pete can feel it.

Joe sighs and tightens her guitar strap. “It’s as good as it’s gonna get, I guess. You ready, Pete?”

Pat’s hyperventilating in Pete’s hands as Joe asks, pink faced and flushed with sweat soaking the ends of her hair resting on her neck, and Pete has an idea.

“Hang on,” Pete whispers, letting go of Pat’s face to walk pick a stray hat from the pile by the door. She places it on Pat’s head and tucks her hair under it so that Pat can still see their faces but no one can see her’s. A one way mirror for a star too bright.

“Better?” Pete asks once Pat’s breathing has finally started to even out, and Pete can feel Joe staring. She doesn’t look back.

“Yeah,” Pat croaks out. She’s not smiling, but she doesn’t look on the verge of tears so Pete takes it as a win.

Pete takes Pat’s hand and squeezes, “You’re going to fucking rule out there, you know? You’re our golden ticket. Our road to stardom. Our key to the van of making it and all that shit, I swear.”

Pat lets out a strangled laugh, torn somewhere between disbelief and pure nerves, but she squeezes Pete’s hand back. Pete feels her smile widen.

They’re announced a few minutes later by a less than enthused bar employee, but they take the stage like they were made for it.

Pete takes the mic, wraps leather gloves around metal, shouts their latest band name and signs it with, “Hope you’re ready to lose your fucking minds!”

Joe strikes a chord the moment Pete’s words hit, and the show really begins.

They play their hearts out. Pat keeps her head down and eyes beneath her hat, but she sings like an angel. Pat gets better at hiding her nerves as the songs go on, and even goes as far as slump her shoulders back after a particularly long note on their third song.

Pete’s feeling reckless and warm so she dances across the stage to where Pat’s singing, and leans against her, back to back as Pat sings and Pete plays. They came to put on a show, and Pete’s going to make sure they deliver: that their names get heard somewhere, sometime else, other than just tonight.

Joe laughs and hits every chord like she was made for it. They _rock_ , really, and by the time their set’s over, the audience is actually cheering them on as they exit to back stage.

Joe collapses onto the couch with a sigh and promise to pack up in a few with a  _just give me a minute to come down_ and Pete jumps on top of her, laughing at her screech. Pat takes a seat on the arm, looking a little starry eyed and stumbling.

Pete feels warm and bubbly from the inside out, like the feeling has materialized in her blood and carved itself into her bones trying desperately to stay.

“How was that for a first show?” Pete ask in a near whisper, ears still numb from the reverb.

Pat’s pupil are blown and she looks nearly blissed out. Pete’s lungs does something funny, but she blames it on the vibration of Joe snorting into her shoulder.

“That was,” Pat starts, a smile beginning to bloom on her face, petal pink and awed, voice caught somewhere between reverence and rough, “ _amazing._ ”

Pete’s smile grows unbidden and she throws her head back with a laugh when Joe reaches up to pull Pat down onto them. The stutter in her chest is easy enough to blame on Pat’s elbow falling into her ribs.  


                                                                                                      ------

 

Somewhere in between the three shows they’ve played together, and handful of practices they’ve scheduled, Pat becomes her gravitational center.

Pat’s the sun Pete finds herself rotating around, and Pat doesn’t seem to mind. She even goes as far as to return Pete’s sudden burst of affectionate cuddles, and plops herself in Pete’s lap almost as often as Pete places herself in Pat’s.

They just- _fit._ From the first show they played where Pete held Pat’s face in her hands: warm breath on Pete’s wrist and baby blues burning from the poorly contained fire inside.

They play the rest of the shows Pete’s been able to book for them, about six over the span of two months, and when they’re not playing they’re rehearsing until their ears are bleeding and jaws are sore.

“Who knew playing guitar could give you jaw aches,” Joe mutters one practice, and Pat snorts into the mic.

They play and they get better, people cheer them on and even go as far as to express some excitement when they fill the stage, but they’re still down a drummer, and their crowd knows it.

“What are we gonna do?” Joe moans, falling back onto another gross couch behind stage.

Always a different stage, always a gross couch. It’s a nice kind of predictable. Pat takes a seat next to her and pats her thigh.

“I have someone I can call, maybe,” Pete offers after a moment. “Ever heard of Andy Hurley?”

Joe shoots up so fast she knocks Pat to the side with a yelp and scowl.

“You’re fucking with me, Pete. There’s no way you could get Hurley, _The_ Andy Hurley, to play with us.”

Pete _tuts_ and pulls out her phone with a smirk, “I met them at a show with Arma a few months ago and was able to get a number.”

Joe’s still staring at her like she’s insane, but now Pat’s lighting up.

“You could get us Hurley?” Pat asks, and she sounds hopeful and sure, like she believes Pete could make this happen. Something in Pete’s chest squeezes, but she pushes it down with a wink as she clicks the number.

It takes about ten phone calls over the span of a week, but they get Hurley, albeit with a shit ton of convincing and - false? Pete hopes not - promises of fame just over the horizon.

Pete calls for the tenth time, the second time that day, and Andy picks up with a sigh that echoes through the line. Pete has her fingers crossed tightly behind her back, half way convinced into prayer.

“You’re not going to let this go are you, Pete?” Andy asks, bitter humor and slight admiration tinging the words, but Pete can hear the waver in their voice: the _what if_ signifying an inevitable relent. Pete silently pumps her fist.

“Nope.” Pete says, popping the _p._ “Not until I’ve signed the best drummer in the whole world to my totally amazing, going to hit it big, band.”

Andy laughs but this time it’s kind and the hint of excitement isn’t so hidden. They ask for a time and location, and Pete provides the address to Pat’s mother’s house as well as the time of their next practice.

“It was a pleasure,” Pete teases, grin straining her cheeks.

“Don’t make me regret this, Wentz.” Andy threatens, but there’s no heat behind it. Pete can feel their smile through the phone.

“Not a day of your life.” Pete promises. The moment Pete hangs up she’s pressing Pat’s number. The fact that’s it’s nearly midnight on a school night doesn’t even pass her mind.

“Hello?” Pat answers in a mumble, voice laced with sleep.

Pete screams into the phone.

 

                                                                                                         ------  


Hurley fits right in.

They show up to practice with a smile and kind eyes and end up curled right between Pat and Joe with Pete in their lap after each show. They practice, create, perform, and they all just- work.

 _It’s like magic_ , Pat tells her, high off their latest a show, the crowd still cheering for them as they leave, and Pat’s eyes are shining.

 _No_ , Pete thinks, watching Pat fall into Andy’s arms as she trips over a wire, Joe laugh at them both as they stumbled backwards,  _it’s better._

It’s all a little too close to fate to be anything else.

If Pete goes home to write a few pages about golden girls and their blue eyes, sleep evasive as the words scrawled across her wrist when paper doesn’t come as quick as the words. Too caught up in red hair and a voice like honey, holiness on the tip of her tongue and stuffed between the words like it’s been forced to find home, everything pouring onto white as the ink stains. No one else has to know.

Pete pours the words onto whatever’s in reach, presses them down into being before they’re gone forever, torn between her already half-doomed heart and dissolving conscious as she scribbles onto paper and skin.

They’re half finished thoughts and rhymes torn apart before they even begin, but she writes them until her hands cramp and then some more: pushes through the pain until the words that have been swirling through her head finally find home.

It’s more than she’s ever written for Arma, and tinged with something different, words sparking across the lines in places they haven’t before. They blur onto the page and mix into skin until they’re something worthy Pete considers pressing down and keeping.

Pete only stops when her phone rings and even then it takes her a moment to focus outside of torn white and black-inked letters. She answers the phone with a growl.

Joe huffs through the line and Pete can feel her rolling her eyes.

Joe talks over her growl, “Pat said to tell you practice has to move back an hour because of a dentist appointment or something. I already called Andy and they’re cool with it.”

“Oh,” Pete whispers into the phone, suddenly aware of the pen in her hand, voice small and rough, mind blanking, “okay.”

The dial tone rings after Joe says goodbye, too distracted to catch the hitch in Pete’s voice or the rough edge to it from the lack of use. Pete doesn’t move.

Her stomach drops when she looks up and sees a faint shine beyond her curtains. It’s morning.

She’s been writing for _hours_. She can’t remember the last time words kept her like this.

Pete stands with shaky legs and a sense of urgency as she buries the pages, something dark and vicious grows in her stomach and threatens to crawl up her throat. She doesn’t let herself think about the hours she’s lost to the words, how many pages she’s filled, or how she has to see everyone in a few hours.

She blames the insomnia and runs to the bathroom, scrubbing the remaining words off until her skin’s red.

  
                                                                                                       ------  


This is their fourth rehearsal this week and they’re only three days in.

Pete’s tired, Joe’s bored, Andy’s a little frustrated with it all, and Pat has an idea for a new cover.

She has an idea for adjusting a new melody to their style, and Andy inquires when Joe and Pete stay quiet, so Pat plays. Her voice singing along and blending with the instrument in her arms until it becomes one of its own. Pete feels herself melt into the room.

“What do you think?” Pat asks, breathless and panting from playing.

Pat’s smile is tinged with anticipation and nerves, and her fingers grip her guitar a little tighter with every passing second.

“Well?” Pat asks when no one says anything immediately, and the look on her face becomes a little more desperate, sliding closer to worry and further from the initial excitement.

Pete’s just trying to think of another way to phrase _like a god_ without losing herself and the meaning completely. Sleep has been an elusive mistress as of late, and Pete’s trying to make sure her filter stays in tact.

“It’s amazing, Pat.” Joe fills in for her, gives Pete a second to breathe before Pat’s smile turns from unsure to blinding, and she aims it at Joe. Pete stomps down the jealousy.

“Are you sure?” Pat asks, but her eyes are bright and her too tight grip on the guitar loosens, “I mean, I just don’t want to make it too much, you know?”

“It was perfect,” Pete interrupts, and three sets of eyes snap back to her. She doesn’t add _like you,_ but she thinks it’s implied.

Pat’s smile widens and Andy raises an eyebrow. Joe’s smirk in bloom as Pat asks, “Really?”

“Really.” Pete assures her, and makes Pat promise to perform a debut at their next show.

Because as much as she’d like to keep Pat to herself, her secret star burning just for her and Joe and Andy, Pete knows the world needs to hear what Pat has to give.

Not deserves, but needs. It’s a very important distinction.

Pete places tape over the tears in her mind and spends another night writing until everything feels carve out of her.

  
                                                                                                        -------

 

Pete’s poorly put together tape fort gets torn down and ripped apart almost a week after it’s been placed, in the form of seven words from Pat’s pretty mouth.

“We should start writing our own lyrics,” Pat suggest, somewhere between another seedy Chicago bar and Pete’s apartment.

Joe’s van is packed with their equipment, Joe herself and Andy in the front seats, so Pat’s stuck in Pete’s lap on the less crowded side. Pat tilts her head back to look up at Pete, and she’s smiling shyly.

Something in Pete’s stomach drops as her mind fills with nothing but blue eyes and pink lips, her journal of half scratched out poetry lines buried underneath her mattress on the tip of her tongue. Seven words. Pete’s sure there’s a joke in there somewhere.

“I mean, it’s like. We need a trademark, you know? Something that makes people recognize us. Something that’s our’s.”

Pat’s hands are flying as she explains and Pete just watches as her smile grows.

“We should.” Pete agrees, instead, and pulls Pat a little closer so she can bury her face in Pat’s neck.

Pat runs a hand through Pete’s hair and Pete lets herself fall into it.

She closes her eyes and tried to lock herself inside the moment.

                                                                                                        ------  


It’s another bar in another nearby town, but this time the difference is that they stay for the after party.

Andy’s trying to butter up the manage for more connections, and Joe’s keeping an eye on their youngest band member for the night.

Pete’s been out of it for too long and needs a distraction desperately, so she pulls her shirt down and skirt up and goes hunting.

She finds her pick of the night by the bar. He’s sweet and shy, and blushes every time Pete bites her lip.

Pete really really needs a distraction even though she’s not sure if the constant blush would be helping. She’s just about to suggest a backstage pass when a voice cuts through her thoughts.

“Pete!” A voice shouts, and Pete turns away from her catch of the night only to come face to face with a flushed, grinning, and incredibly drunk Pat. Pete feels her chest constrict.

“Pete,” Pat continues with deep sincerity, stumbling through the crowd to fall into Pete’s side. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Pat’s staring at her, giddy and shining, and for a moment Pete is filled with nothing but fury at Joe for not keeping a better eye on Pat when she knew Pete would be occupied. The bar is small and Pat’s the youngest here. Pete does not think about the possibilities or how they make her stomach twist, and focuses on what’s right in front of her.

“Pat.” Pete says, but it comes out more like a sigh. Short blonde and blushing is nothing but a distant memory now as Pete throws Pat’s arms over her shoulder, Pat nearly crawling onto her back, and begins to steer them out of the bar.

“Where’s Joe?” Pete manages to grit out when they’re far enough from the crowd for Pat to hear her. Pat shakes her head with a smile.

“It’s a secret,” Pat whispers, leans closer to Pete’s ear so that her breath is blowing across Pete’s neck. Pete goes rigid, but Pat’s too gone to notice.

“Did she get you those drinks?” Pete says as they make it to the van. She takes the spare key, that Joe does not know about and she’s going to make sure it stays that way, out of her pocket and unlocks the van.

Pat laughs like Pete’s just told her a joke.

“No no,” Pat giggles, and rest her head on Pete’s shoulder. Her next words are slurred, from sleep and drink if her eyes are anything to go by. “I took Joe’s ID when she was talking to Andy with one of the managers. But _shh_! She can’t know.”

Pete’s shoulders relax and she opens the van’s back door. She helps Pat inside where she deposits her onto the floor with a water bottle and command to _drink_.

“Tomorrow morning is going to suck for you, Patricia Stump,” Pete says with a gentle smile, and brushes Pat’s bangs out of her eyes.

Pat nods, falls a little forward with her eyes sliding closed until she jolts her body back up. Pete’s heart is being consumed by fondness.

“‘M got bored.” Pat mumbles. Then, “Couldn’t find you.”

Pete’s heart stutters in her chest. She brushes Pat’s hair behind her ear as Pat yawns and Pete can feel herself melting.

“Sorry,” Pete offers quietly. Pat slides down to the floor with Pete and curls up in her lap, Pat’s face buried in her neck. Pete takes it as forgiveness.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Pat whispers.

Pete prepares herself for something else she stolen tonight, but of course Pat has never been one for predictability.

“I think you’re my best friend,” Pat whispers, face buried in Pete’s neck, quiet like she knows the weight of her words.

Pete can’t breathe, tongue heavy and thick in her mouth, so she wraps her arms around Pat instead.

Pete runs her hands through Pat’s hair until she can find her voice.

“Well, I know you’re mine.” Pete whispers. It’s cracked in the wrong places, holds too much in too few words, but Pat’s too drunk to catch it.

Pat sighs into her neck, and Pete tilts her head back against the van and closes her eyes. She counts Pat’s breaths and tries to still her heartbeat.

Andy and Joe find them about an hour later, and Pete wakes up long enough to adjust Pat around the equipment. Pete ignores their stares.

Pete’s succumbing to the warm embrace of sleep, dark edges creeping with Pat curled up in her lap, when Joe’s voice cuts through, warbled and faded.

“Wait. How the fuck did Pete get into my van?”

  
                                                                                                       ------  


The next morning, as predicted by Pete, does suck. But oh, Patricia makes certain she doesn’t suffer alone.

Turns out hangover Pat is even more volatile than _grumpy_ and _sleep-deprived_ Pat put together. Not even Pete’s new title of _best friend_ can save her from Pat’s wrath.

Pete walks back into the living room, where Andy and Joe are sat for breakfast, with an empty bowl, shirt covered in cereal, and a shoe print on the side of her face. Their stares are piercing.

“Don’t even ask,” Pete grits out as she pulls up a chair at the table.

Joe peels a piece off Pete’s shirt and throws it in her mouth with a hum of approval. Andy falls backwards laughing.  


                                                                                                       ------  


When Pete gets home, throws her clothes into the washroom with a mind too focused elsewhere to notice if they even make it into the basket, she takes everything she’s written and tries to bury the meanings between rhymes and riddles.

She writes the hours away. Twists meaning into metaphor and hopes they still convey the point into something beautiful and damn near divine.

She spends the next two days pushing words together like prayers and squeezing until they mean something less obvious.

Pete brings what she’s satisfied with to their next practice. She sets the journal down onto a spare side table thrown to the side of Pat’s garage and it lands with a sharp slap. Three sets of eyes turn to meet her’s.

Pete shrugs, but she’s smiling, careful of her expressions, “You said we needed lyrics. I provided.”

Pat’s returning smile is bright enough to light a city. Pete takes it for herself instead.  


                                                                                                      ------

 

Andy gets them their next show. It’s difficult from start to finish, from practice disagreements to loading up the van for the show.

But the moment they step into the venue, something in the air shifts. The atmosphere s chaotic and the stage is set up different than they’re used to, but that’s because everything is _bigger_.

The manager greets them and calls some employees to help them set up. Everyone’s nice and kind, and the place doesn’t smell like day old cheese. This, Pete decides, is heaven.

The only drawback occurs at Pete’s hands when she’s caught repeatedly glaring at the boy who stands a little too close to Pat during sound testing until he leaves, and then they’re down an extra set of hands. Joe sighs like she was expecting it, and Pat just looks confused.

“What?” Pat asks when Andy slaps the back of Pete’s head.

“Nothing,” Andy assure her, but Pat doesn’t look convinced. Whatever, Pete’s just keeping an eye out for her best friend. Andy and Joe should be thankful.

They’re called onto stage with their name of the week, this time suggested by an audience member, but Pete thinks it’s starting to grow on her.

 _Fall Out Boy_ , she likes the irony.

They take the stage with smiles, and Pete grabs the nearest mic and screams, “Are you ready to fucking _rock_?” Taking an immense amount of joy from the crowds responding screeches.

Joe starts to play and Pete follows, next is Andy and then Pat leans into her mic.

Pat smiles, shy and radiant beneath her hat, and her body begins to loosen as she sings. Tight muscles ease into something softer as she moves her lips closer to the mike, slow and careful like she’s sharing a secret, and closes her eyes: gets lost in the words Pete spent days agonizing over on her floor- soft smile and an angel’s voice in the back of her mind, shaping every lyric.

Pat pulls the mike closer and weaves glory into the form of words, melds holy into melody, and Pete loses all of the words she’s ever claimed to have.

Pete is still playing. She can feel her fingers running across her base from muscle memory alone, and hears Joe and Andy playing too. All their instruments blending the song together until it becomes something more than lovelorn words scribbled down past midnight on Pete’s hands or wrist, buying time before they drift away.

Pat’s shining, light and fire and absolutely blinding, and Pete feels like she’s burning.

Pat sings and the world burns with her.

The shows ends and their crowd is still screaming, hands reaching onto the stage, and Joe laughs as she runs across the front to give a few high fives.

Andy rolls their eyes, and Pat’s still smiling in the way that makes Pete’s chest freeze up and she has to remind herself to breathe. Ignore the ice flooding through her veins, overtaking the fire and seizing up her stomach when they walk off stage and Pat turns to her.

“Oh my god!” Pat screams, and Pete jumps as Pat bumps her hip sideways into Joe and slaps Andy on the back with a _whoop_.

They all laugh, Joe slams back into her and sends Pat tumbling into Andy with a laugh, and Pete can feel herself smiling so hard her cheek is starting to hurt.

Pat’s never this loud, hidden behind her hat, eyes down trying not to draw attention unless her temper flares and she’s too furious - mostly at Pete - to think about hiding underneath a hat.

“We rocked! Did you hear them out there? Holy shit we fucking _rocked_!” Pat’s laughing and cheering, still high from the adrenaline of performing and feeding off of the crowd as she swings around to face Pete.

Pat’s drenched in sweat, her hair sticking to her forehead and curling out at the edges. Her eyes are shining and Pete’s thinks her cheeks must be straining from how far her smile stretches. Pete has half a mind to tease her and say, _careful or your face will get stuck that way_. Pete wouldn’t mind.

Pat is _glowing,_ illuminated beneath the stage lights that just barely reach backstage, and her own excitement only serves as an amplifier for her already enchanting spark.

Pat’s radiating joy and adrenaline and everything Pete loves about performing live is standing right in front of her, looking at Pete like she’s given her the world, and Pete’s stomach twists: does something ugly that sends alarms and endorphins directly into her brain.

Pat is energy and life before her as the crowd is still cheering for them, even after they’ve left the stage. It’s incredible, nearly unbelievable and possibly a dream, but Pete lets herself fall into it anyway.

Pete laughs, buries the feeling and soars into the high, grabs her hand and pulls her into a hug. She doesn’t think about how Pat curls into the contact, or how perfect she fits against her. Andy and Joe are cheering as Pat leans forward, pushing herself further into Pete.

Pat’s breath brushes lightly against Pete’s ear as she whispers, awestruck, “We did it.”

Pete pulls back just far enough to reach up and cup Pat’s face.

They’re both sticky and gross and the venue still reeks, but Pete brushes a thumb over Pat’s jaw, and their wide smiles mirror each other.

“Golden ticket,” Pete murmurs, and Pat’s head falls back, leaving Pete’s hands to slide down her neck as she laughs.

Pat’s pulse rushes beneath her fingertips and it’s a holy thing, truly. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps Pete grounded.

Now, Pete thinks, ignoring the twisting thing inside of her in favor of watching Pat turn out of Pete’s grip and jump into Andy’s arms as Joe bends over cackling madly, is one of those times.

                                                                                                      ------  


“A tour.” Patrick breathes, repeating Pete’s words with youthful hope and excitement, and the room comes alive at the words. Pete feels her smile stretch across her face.

“How the fuck, Wentz?” Andy asks, raising an eyebrow and crossing their arms over their chest, bumping Joe where she’s started to cheer next to them.

Pete shrugs, but her smile betrays her excitement, “What? So maybe I got a few hookups and shows set up for the span of roughly-”

Pete bites her lip and looks at the ceiling like she’s trying to think. Pat growls and Pete breaks the act as her body vibrates with laughter. She feels weightless.

“Two weeks,” Pete says. “Two weeks of shows and venues and traveling across the East Coast in Trohman’s hellhole of a van in relentless summer heat.”

“What makes you think I’ll lug your sorry ass around for two weeks?” Joe squawks, but she’s smiling so wide Pete thinks her cheeks might split. It’s a look mirrored on all their faces.

“We’re going on tour!” Pat shouts, launching herself at Pete to plant a sloppy kiss on the side of her face. Pete pushes away the weight in her chest and pulls her in for a hug, burying her face in Pat’s shoulder.

Andy and Joe dog pile them until they’re nothing but a laughing messy pile of limbs on the floor.

Somewhere between the sky and the ground, Pat’s lost her hat. Pete finds this when she looks up from giving Trohman a noogie, and is met with Pat’s eyes. All crystal and glass, reflective of everything Pat feels because she’s so terrible at hiding it. Pat’s still laughing, nervous excitement and a flurry of emotions Pete scrawled out on her floor too many times before.

Andy is nudging against Pat’s side, Pat’s reddish blonde hair falling into her face as she falls forward, offering Pete a secretive smile: still shy in the corners, where only Pete knows where to look for it.

The world freezes in a pile of giggling bodies and restarts in the sudden ache of Pete’s chest as they rise to their feet.

“Two weeks,” Pat says, eyes shining, and something terrible clicks into place.

“Two weeks.” Pete repeats, thankful when her voice comes out steady and the erratic beating of her heart stays hidden away in her chest.

Pete buries the feeling down somewhere deep, coats it in unfinished versus and pushes it next to all the lyrics she could never bring herself to write down.

It’s really too late for Pete to be wondering if she’s going to survive this.

                                                                                                          ------  


The worst part about touring, Pete knows, is the bookings. So she usually tries to conduct them in secret, realizing that Pat and Andy may not agree with her- unusual methods of assuring them spots.

She is proven correct when she get a confirmation call from a manager who asks the name of their _punk_ band.

“Fall Out Boy,” Pete supplies easily and hangs up with a polite _thank you_ before the dial tone cuts in. She turns to find a set of bewildered band members staring at her.

“What?” Pete asks, defensive.

“You did not just call us Punk,” Pat gapes as Pete pockets her phone. Pete shrugs.

“Yeah, Pete,” Joe surmises with a nod and grim expression, stuffing her guitar into its case, “Punk’s dead.”

Pete throws the drumstick in her hand at Joe and earns a hiss.

She turns back to Pat with a smile, “Actually. Punk’s  _not_ dead because we are going to resurrect it with our bare hands and breathe life into its rotting corpse.”

There’s silence for a beat before Joe mutters _Jesus_ and rubs the back of her head where the drumstick hit her.

Andy watches on, expression torn between consideration and dull horror, and Pat snaps her mouth shut from where it’s fallen open further.

“Sure, Pete,” Pat says, backing away slightly. “Whatever you say.”

Pete smiles all teeth, and finishes packing their stuff.

                                                                                                     ------  


The next week is a blur of packing, yelling at each other in the name of love, checking and reassuring parents-

(“How the hell did you get my mom to say yes, Pete?” Pat demands arms crossed, head tilted to the side, looking too curious to by mad. Her bottom lip is stuck out in an unintentional pout, and Pete’s very careful to keep her eyes off of it.

Pete pets Pat’s head with a sigh and fond smile as she glances away.

“Well, it may have had something to do with a marriage proposal and promises of cleaning, but just you wait I have the best-”

A punch to the arm and an indignant squeak of, “ _Pete!_ ” is enough to have her cackling in the face of a scowling Patricia.)

\-  and a record level of suppression that Pete’s not sure if she should be grateful for. She thinks she is, maybe. She shakes the thoughts away and elects to throw another t-shirt into her already too full bag.

Pete nods at her handy work, fitting two weeks of clothing and supplies into a single suitcase as well as equipment is a damn talent at this point, and sits on her suitcase as she zips it.

The sudden noise of a horn - the van’s horn, to be precise, because Pet would know that choked out half-wheeze anywhere - is enough to have her jumping off the suitcase to finish the job.

She yells a quick, _“Coming!”_ at the top of her lungs, even though she’s sure no one can hear her. It’s the thought that counts. Probably.

She extends the handle of her suitcase and picks up her bag, ignoring the weight of the journals inside as she straightens. Pete lets out a breath and the horn honks again.

Pete walks out her front door with her heart in her throat and middle finger in the air, aimed at Joe Trohman herself who is rubbing her arm and hissing at a mildly pleased looking Andy.

Pat smiles at her when Pete opens the trunk doors.

“Are you ready to be a rockstar?” Pete asks, shutting the doors behind her as she crawls in and rests her head on Pat’s lap. She looks up at Pat and widens her eyes, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Not even close,” Pat says, moving her hand to intertwine their fingers, and squeezes.

“You’re going to be amazing,” Pete tells her, feels the grin pushing itself onto her face, and Pat snorts lightly.

“Amazing?” Joe scoffs from the front seat, turning to face them, the excitement radiating off in waves. “We’re going to be fucking _legends_.”

They pull off with the sun shining through the van windows, the radio blaring Joe’s shitting music as Andy argues with her about it, and Pete’s head in Pat’s lap: their fingers still knotted together.

Pete closes her eyes and soaks it all in.

                                                                                                      ------

 

Their first show is a state away, nearly forty miles from Pat’s garage, and in a small shabby bar on the edge of the nearest city.

The moment they walk in the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes fill their lungs, and Pete releases a sigh.

“Smells like home,” Pete says and Pat giggles.

Joe nods and adds, “Missing the weed, though.”

Pete tilts her head and concedes with a nod, “True. Good point.”

Andy’s shoulders fall as they let out a long-suffering sigh.

Setting up doesn’t take too long and they’re ready with ten minutes to spare. It’s a record achievement, really. Having everything tuned on time is a true gift, and Pete thanks any local gods.

When their name is called, they decided to stick with _Fall Out Boy_ for trademark purposes but also because Pete’s attached to it now, Pete squeezes Pat’s hand before they stray from behind the curtain.

“You’re going to be amazing,” Pete whispers in her ear, and Pat shivers against her.

Pat takes a breath and squeezes back. She doesn’t let go until they break the curtain, and Pete doesn’t think about how Pat’s touch had lingered.

They play a few covers to warm up, and then throw in a couple originals Pat’s created demos for.

Pat had spent most of the trip composing music for the lyrics Pete had offered her, awe struck  when she read what Pete had given her, rewarding Pete with a grin.

“Fuck, Pete,” Pat said, and Pete’s heart only stopped for half a second before she continued with. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

Pete fell into her side and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Pat screeched and slapped her shoulder. Andy offered a questioning eyebrow in the mirror and Pete just smiled politely back.

“You’re disgusting,” Pat said, but she was smiling. Pete blamed the warm temperature in the van for her blush.

They play about seven songs during their set and Pete takes every opportunity to touch Pat that she can. Whether she’s brushing up against her to share the mic, or leaning against her back as Pat hits a high note and Pete plays it out on her base.

By the end Pete thinks her fingers might be bleeding, but it’s completely worth it when the crowd cheers and Pat’s smiling like she realizes the world’s her’s.

At the end they have a few people come by to compliment them and a few who ask for autographs.

Pat blinks and opens her mouth in obvious protest, but before she can Pete is sliding up next to her with a winning smile and an, “Of course we will!”

They each sign a few hats and shirts, and before they know it it’s nearly one in the morning and they’re packing up for the night.

Joe takes the first driving shift, and Pete volunteers for the second. Every time she closes her eyes she sees Pat smiling into the crowd, sparking, and words get lost in translation through her brain before she can even get them down. She already knows she won’t be sleeping tonight.

Joe looks at her strangely, stares like she’s trying to see through Pete and out the other end, but doesn’t complain.

Pat curls into Pete’s side as Joe drives. Andy passed out in the passenger’s seat and Pete watches the moon through the window. A burning smile and lost words haunting her behind dark eyelids.

When Joe pulls over and taps Pete’s shoulder, she gets up without complaint. The road is something nice to focus on aside from the growing twist in her stomach.

                                                                                                        ------  


Their next stop is also a bar, because those are the easiest gigs to book. Turns out this one doesn’t card, so afterwards Pete’s not exactly surprised to end up with arms full of drunk Pat. Again.

“Oh my god,” Pete groans as not even thirty-minutes after their set’s ended a giggling Pat falls into her lap. She leans up into her trying to trace Pete’s face with her fingertips like she’s hypnotized by Pete.

 _Drunk_ , Pete reminds herself when her heart starts to pound erratically in her chest and her breathes become labored, _drunk means not completely there and very easily distracted_.

“You are such a lightweight,” Pete finishes as Pat’s fingers make their way to Pete’s mouth and start to trace her lips. Pete bounces her gently from her lap with only a slight yelp from Pat as Pete stands to lift her onto her back.

Pete can’t bring herself to be anything other than fond, really, even when she’s loading a stumbling Pat into the back after the show, and unloading her into the nearest gas station bathroom before they get back on the road.

“Pete,” Pat mumbles, and she’s that warm side of sleepy drunk with a light pink blush covering her nose and cheeks, falling over Pete as they stumble back into the van.

Joe and Andy are grabbing gas and coffee, all of them fresh from a show and after party, the atmosphere of the night a nice warm buzz compared to the usual suffocation Pete too often suffers when the dark closes in.

Pat is warm against her, murmuring something into her shoulder that vibrates through every inch of Pete’s body, and Pete has to reel her heart back in and try to keep her guts from spilling out onto the floor with them.

Pat shuffles forward from where they are laying on the ground until she’s practically laying on Pete: legs on top of legs and Pat’s head resting on Pete’s chest.

“‘T’was nice,” Pat murmurs and Pete feels her heart constrict as she runs her fingers gently through Pat’s hair, peeling her hat off, revealing the messing reddish blonde pile underneath.

“You smell good,” Pat whispers, and she gets a bit of drool in Pete’s hair, but Pete can’t bring herself to care or keep her smile at bay.

It slips slightly when Pat continues in a murmur no louder than a breath, “‘M love you.”

All the air in Pete lungs disappears as quickly as it came, and the walls of the van suddenly feel like they’re pressed too close. Pete listens to the loud silence around them and tries to unfreeze her heartbeat.

The thing is, it’s not new information. It’s nothing Pete hasn’t said to Pat already. It’s nothing Pat hasn’t said to Pete, but still it’s different.

Pat is nearly asleep on Pete’s chest, curled up warm and soft, looking every year of her young age. Pete feels sick. Like there’s a second skin crawling over her’s, pressing too hard too tight, constricting and whispering something dark and familiar. Suddenly the night isn’t so friendly anymore, not when it’s baring its teeth and laughing as Pete falls into it.

“Love you too,” Pete says back, chokes out the words in a whisper and tries to convince herself the volume was by choice and not all she could manage. She tries to focus on Pat’s soft and balanced breathing, and ignore how the words sting in her bones. How her mind’s trying to rush itself against her skin.

Pete’s falling where Pat is rising and she’s not about to drag her down with her.

Andy and Joe come back, laughing and shoving each other into their seats until Andy takes their driver seat, and they drive further into the night. Pat’s breaths guiding Pete down the dark blurry roads, stray street signs and littered lights.

When Pete wakes she finds a sleeping Pat curled up to her. The van parked on the side of the road with Andy and Joe asleep in the front.

Pat’s breaths are warm against Pete’s neck, her lips skimming Pete’s neck briefly with each movement. She’s a rosy pink and grasping onto Pete like she’s a lifeline.

Behind them the sun is rising, but Pete knows nothing will ever be as beautiful as the scene before her.  


                                                                                                         ------  


Pete doesn’t sleep for the next two days, but she fills two journals and most of her arms with potential. Scribbles down what she can at the dark corners of the night and morning.

Pat catches on the third day, lips bitten and eye brows furrowed out of concern as she tries to persuade Pete into a nap, but all Pete can think of is writing the constant stream running through her head when Pat’s lips go from blush pink to rose red. She thinks of smiles and laughter and show lights that emphasize already angelic features.

She gets a few lines onto her bicep, already having tucked her journals away so she settles for hidden beneath her shirt and away from Pat’s eyes, before Pat crawls into the back of the van with her.

Joe starts the van and Andy looks back at them with an eyebrow raised. Pete looks away before Andy finds something.

“I can sing you something,” Pat offers gently, and Pete can feel her heart stuttering in her chest.

“Okay.” Pete whispers back.

Pete closes her eyes and lets herself get lost in Pat’s voice and the hands threading through her hair. It’s not sleep exactly, but it’s something close enough for now.

The next few days follow the same pattern.

Pete’s writing until her hands cramp and the moonlight isn’t bright enough. They stay in the van most of the time, only have enough to splurge on one motel room, and Joe says they should save it for an end celebration.

So when she’s not writing she’s practicing or driving. Between it all she doesn’t get more than maybe ten hours of sleep  


                                                                                                       ------  


They make a snack break a few miles from their latest venue. It’s hot as hell outside and Pete wants food, but she’s still bruised from swinging her bass around so much last night. Pete glances over to Pat with pleading eyes when the van’s parked.

“Not a chance, Wentz,” Pat says, one earphone still in and messing with something on her computer. She doesn’t even glance up from the screen, just knows what the stare she’s being burned with means like the back of her hand. Pete wonders if she should be a little disturbed that Pat knows her so well, but the fact that she hasn’t slept in two days and is craving an unearthly amount of sugar overshadows the thought.

Pete peels her legs off the scalding van floor and stands up with an exaggerated sigh as she stretches. “I was going to ask if you wanted a snack,” Pete says, sticking out her bottom lip when Pat rolls her eyes.

“Liar,” Pat says, but it comes out fond.

Pete flips her off as she exits the van, but she doubts Pat even looks up.

Andy leads the way into the station and Pete follows while Joe fills them up with gas and keeps Pat company. Pete grabs two packs of crackers and as many sour straws as she can carry. Andy’s face scrunches up when Pete sets the candy on the counter. The cashier offers a blank look. Pete expects at least a raised eyebrow.

“Fuck no, Pete.” Andy starts, shaking their head, “There’s not a chance in hell I’m spending the next three hours in the van with you pumped up on this much sugar.”  

Pete sticks her tongue out and puts back three of the packets. That leaves them with four orders of sour straws, gluten free chips, crackers, and a slushie for Joe. Pete pushes the candy forward and bats her eyelashes.

Andy hands the cashier the money with a sigh. Pete silently fist bumps the air behind them.

The van’s parked in front now so they climb in and distribute the food. Andy passes Joe her slushie and Joe takes it with greedy hands and an exaggerated moan when she takes a sip, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“Andy, oh Andy you absolute blessing of a person. Who would I be without you on this hot as fuck day?”

Pete throws Andy’s gluten free chips at Joe’s head to shut her up. Joe jumps with a yelp and Andy cackles behind the wheel.

Pete turns to Pat and taps her shoulder trying to earn her attention away from her laptop. Pat turns and her looks melts from annoyance to reverence as Pete holds up the sour straws with a devilish grin. Pat snatches a packet with care. She tears it open and shoves the first piece in her mouth like she’s starving for it.

“Pete Wentz,” Pat moans around a mouthful of sour straw. “I think I love you.”

Pete snorts and rips open her own package, hoping no one sees how her grin has frozen on her face.

She reaches up and fights Joe for a sip of slushie as a distraction. Pete ends up with a few scratches and minimal damage and she doesn’t let Joe forget about it for _days_.

                                                                                                         ------  


This is what Pete finally admits to herself a week and six shows into the tour, fingers gripping the wheel of the van like an anchor:

Pat is starlight, bright and consuming and everything all at once, and Pete can’t touch her.  
  
So she writes her instead. Composes poems and prose and lyrics that bare her very soul to the world, or the parts of it that listen to them play, and hopes the meaning gets lost in translation somewhere between melody and misery.

The words still stained to her skin from too many nights spent without a shower stop burn against her bones. A constant reminder and name for the choked heart in her chest and twist in her stomach.

The van is silent aside from Joe’s snoring from where she’s asleep in the passenger’s seat. In the rear-view mirror Pete can see Andy and Pat snuggled together in the back.

Pete turns back to the road as the moon dips and sun rises from her window and breathes.

                                                                                                        ------  


They finish another set and Pat is glowing again, because she’s never stopped, but her light is at its brightest than when she’s running off stage.

Pat is glowing and something in Pete’s chest has been aching through the whole set, feeling Pat sing down in her bones. The sound engraving itself in every inch it could take and then more until, for a moment at least, she was nothing but what Pat’s voice made her.

Pete followed her into her during the finale, taking up any and all of space keeping them apart before, to take a quick peck at Pat’s neck when she tilted her head up for a note.

Pat had yelped and smacked her back while flipping her off, and Pete fell back in laughter, heart thrumming against her chest, fingers playing them through the remaining notes.

There’s an after party, and Pete’s bones feel too heavy where they usually feel too light and the world feels wrong for how right it was a few moments before.

Maybe it’s because she’s finally realizing they’re a week and a half in with three shows left to go before it’s over and she won’t wake up to a grumpy soft Pat curled into her side. Four days until the dark won’t be as easily sidelined by pouting pink lips and baby blues that make Pete’s toes curl.

Pete looks up from where she’s stored her bass and sees Pat with Joe and Andy.

Joe’s yelling and shaking Andy by their shoulders while Pat laughs loud and unabashed.

Pete watches and lets herself slip and relax. She’s got time to kill and something in her chest she wants to forget about for a few hours.

Pete turns away and lets herself fall into the movements and energy of the crowd. She finishes as many drinks as she can until she finds someone willing to distract  her from the weight of her own mind.

There are plenty of people watching her so she takes her pick.

Pete grabs the nearest boy willing, blonde and short and flushed, and pulls him into the bathroom. The moment they walk in, Pete pushes him into a stall and pins him against the wall.

The kiss is rough and Pete bites at his lips until their puffy and swollen, barring resemblance to something she’s too distracted to place right now. His hands roam up and down her waist and back, and she runs her hands through his hair she doesn’t think about the redish blond shade, or how he blushes whenever Pete moves her hips just right and how he smiles shy and too familiar to admit without her stomach turning.

It’s quick and dirty, and Pete doesn’t remember if she’s locked the door when she hears a squeaking noise, but she doubts anyone will come in with how loud they are: both too far gone to really care.

Pete devours the boy in front of her, takes and takes, pulls until something gives, and when it does she laughs against his lips until she meets him there: head thrown back and throat bared.

When they’re done, she pulls up her skirt with a wink and blows him a kiss on her way out. She leaves him leaning against the stall, red and ruined, and tries to find where Pat and everyone has gone.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been, the stench of sex and vodka coating her as she finally finds her way to Andy, Joe, and Pat circled around the van.

Pete rushes up and hugs Joe from behind, laughing when Joe shrieks. Andy pulls Pete off and Pete tries to lick Andy’s cheek until she finally gives up and just settles for laughing instead.

Pete feels out of her body and blistering, breaking with something, and she can feel the elation bloom into something more maddening and less controllable as she twists in Andy’s arms from where they’re carrying her to the van.

“Come on, Pete,” Joe grunts when Pete keeps trying to crawl away and towards Pat who flinches back like Pete’s hit her. Pete stops, confusion washing over her and giving Joe enough time to push her back into the van.

Pat takes the front seat with Joe and Andy sits in the back with Pete.

“Pat?” Pete hears herself slur, head in Andy’s lap but eyes watching Pat shift in the front.

Pat pulls her hat down until it’s covering the top of her head and pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them like a security blanket. She doesn’t say anything back.

Pete falls asleep before she can think too much about what any of it means.  


                                                                                                       ------

Pete’s buzzing through her skin.

They’re filling up on gas to make it to their second to last show, Pete made sure their tour ends full circle with their finale in the heart of Chicago itself, and Pat still hasn’t said more than ten words to her since Pete woke up incredibly hungover and thrashing and trying to block the sun out.

Pat mumbles that she’s going to grab breakfast from the station store and Andy goes with her. Pete watches them go and wonders if she’s imagining the newfound distance. One glance at Joe and she knows she’s not.

“What?” Pete asks, a little annoyed but mostly tired.

Joe crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow like Pete’s completely clueless.

“You really don’t know do you?” Joe asks, but now she’s eyeing Pete warily like she was expecting something else.

Pete makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, “Know _what_? Why the fuck won’t Pat just fucking talk to me?”

The last one comes out a little more pleading than intended, and Joe’s eyes soften. She uncrosses her arms and lets them fall to her sides with a sigh.

“That," Joe says, careful, "isn't for me to say. Talk to Pat about it."  
  
She rolls her eyes when Pete growls, continues, “You need to talk about the other night and figure out what the fuck is going on.”

Pete blinks. “What other night?”

Joe sighs like Pete’s testing her, and suddenly Pete’s furious. Her best friend won’t talk to her and no one will tell her _why._ No one will tell Pete what she’s done wrong this time and she needs to know: needs to set things right with Pat before the dam inside her finally gives and there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

“What the fuck happened?” Pete tries, “Did I do something? Shit, did I _say_ something?”

Joe licks her lips and looks back, checking to make sure Andy and Pat aren’t within hearing range. She turns back to Pete with a sad smile.

“It’s more of what you didn’t say, I think.” Joe says, “And the other night? Try nearly blacked out drunk and poorly chosen hook-ups.”

Pete feels like a bucket of ice water has been poured over her head, “What are you-”

Andy’s voice sounds in the distance like a warning, and Joe looks at Pete with a pained look.

“Lock the door next time, alright? And maybe, maybe give Pat some warning before she has to find out for herself.”

 _Don’t lead her on_ , Joe’s expression says, but Pete didn’t know there was ever anything for Pat to hold onto.

Pete flashes back, tries to recall anything and after some digging remembers a foreign squeak. Her stomach drops. A door. With Pat on the other side.

Pete wants to ask more questions and get some answers, wants to be a coward and beg Joe to smooth things over with Pat for her, wants to say _I didn’t know there was anything to hold on to,_ but Andy and Pat’s voices draw closer with each passing second and Pete knows she’s out of time.

“Be careful, Pete,” Joe says, a double edged sword: a gentle admission a threat as she retreats back to meet Andy and Pat, buying Pete time to collect herself before the ride back.

It doesn’t give Pete much time to stitch her heart back into place from where it has fallen down and found home her stomach, but she appreciates the sentiment.

                                                                                                          ------  


Their next show is twenty-four miles of radio noise and cloud cover threatening the possibility of rain.

Pat doesn’t glance back at her once. She curls into herself as she stares out the window instead.

Pete doesn’t write a word.

                                                                                                          ------  


The night plays out in a series of snapshots: each brighter than the one before it in the way that Pete can hardly stand to look at any of them.

Maybe that’s why she ends up in the same situation that started all this in the first place. Pat still didn't spare her a glance, not one smile no matter how many times Pete tried for her attention.

Pre-show jitters combined with the post-show adrenaline rush, and Pete already buzzing in and out of her skin from Pat’s avoidance, are what she blames for her current state: in a stranger’s bed, finally coming down and feeling a little less than empty.

Pete turns over, pushes away from the body lying beside her, and lies still as the afterglow rolls over her.

Her breaths rock her entire body as she hears the boy’s next to her even out and he falls asleep soon after, leaving Pete to the mercy of the dark and another stranger’s bed. Bitterness spreads beneath her skin and she wishes the night would let her go for once, but she knows that’s not how these things work.

Pete Wentz doesn’t deserve peace and the night doesn’t grant wishes.

Pete stares at the ceiling, almost wants to ask for forgiveness. A bitter part of her wonders what Pat’s face must have looked like when she walked in and found Pete pining a stranger to the bathroom wall. Her stomach twist and she almost wants to cry at unfair it is.

It’s not like there’s anything between them, so it shouldn’t matter if Pete wants to have meaningless sex in a venue bathroom with an adorable stranger. It shouldn’t mean anything that Pat won’t meet her eyes like Pete’s broken something between them.

It shouldn’t mean anything, but somehow it does because Pete broke through the unspoken and came out with Pat’s heart in a hand-basket, throwing it right back into her face without ever knowing she had it.

Tonight was their last show officially ‘on the road’ before they head back to Illinois, and they played like they owned the stage because for the night they did. Pat’s voice broke through the crowd and created its own space and Andy and Joe filled in the cracks it left behind as Pete let herself get swept into it all.

Pat still wouldn't meet her eyes, froze when Pete leaned against her back to play, and Pete doesn’t think she has the words to fix what she’s broken.

Tonight is the long awaited motel night and Pete’s spending it in a stranger’s apartment: too embarrassed and afraid to face what the shared motel room might hold. She feels tired and drained but she knows it doesn’t promise sleep.

Pete lies still and doesn’t think about where Pat is tonight. If she went home with the ginger that stopped her at their last show, or maybe got the phone number of the brunette that couldn’t keep her eyes off of Pat. Maybe they’re talking now and both laughing at how _stupid_ Pete is.

Pete doesn’t let herself dwell on what could be. Not when she’s laying a stranger's bed thinking about how Pat smiled at Pete the first time she played the lyrics Pete wrote for her. The lyrics Pete spent days driving wedges between until they were as inconspicuous as possible because Pete is obvious and Pat would know if she was singing a love song about herself: she would see right through Pete.

She thinks of all the times she’s hidden her feelings under lyrics, scribbled down at the dark corners of the night and morning, and pretended like the world isn’t the best it’s ever been when she’s with Pat, and how she doesn't want to ruin her.

No one can fix Pete Wentz, and she’s not about to stain Pat.

Pat’s face swims in the back of her mind, how it must have crumbled as she walked into the bathroom and found Pete, pale and stuttering where where Pete couldn’t hear a thing over the sounds of the boy she had pinned there. It’s an ever present reminder of how much of a fuck up Pete is: a beautiful haunting of what Pete’s ruined.

Pete feels sick with it.

She turns over, too tired to confess to another strange ceiling in another nothing town, and closes her eyes, begging for sleep to come.

It doesn’t, though, and Pete watches the moon glow until the sun rises to take its place.

She collects her clothes and leaves before her latest mistake wakes up to find her gone.

There’s another city waiting for them. Another town to play and rage and disappoint. Another trip where Pat will sit in the front without looking at her, and another foreign room Pete will make home for the night in the name of love.

There’s one more show and it’s in the heart of Chicago itself and Pete almost wants to rush up to Pat and tell her; _I planned this for you. Tried to give you your city for a night_. She won’t though. She’s already fucked up enough.

Pete gets back in time to help Andy load the van. Andy tells her Pat and Joe went to get coffee, words chosen carefully and tone sympathetic. Pete nods and doesn’t say anything, just helps Andy load the van.

“You could talk about it, you know,” Andy says, turning to Pete.

Pete shakes her head, doesn’t say, _i think i broke something unfixable_ , but maybe Andy gets it going by their frown.

Joe and Pat take the front seats with less than five words exchanged between any of them and they pile into the van like they’ve taught themselves to. Only now with Andy in the backseat instead of Pat.

“Let’s get this show on the road.” Joe mumbles, and pulls out.

Pete stares out the window until the sunlight burns her eyes. She closes them with a breath and lets herself drift.

                                                                                                          ------

Chicago is as beautiful as it’s always been.

It’s a city teeming with life and art and people _living,_  and tonight it’s theirs.

Pat seems to have given up avoiding Pete for the sake of bumping against her trying to see further out the back window. Pete doesn’t test the waters and lets Pat slide against her, trying to see her city.

Their last venue is amazing. Pete knew it had to be good with all the favors she cashed in and strings she pulled, but she wasn’t prepared for this. They walk in and Joe’s voice fills the silence with an awed, “Wow.”

The stage is bigger than they’re used to, but not too big where it takes up most of the venue. No, there is enough seating, chairs and booths and corner tables, to house at a minimum three hundred people. If even half show up it will still be one of their biggest shows.

“You did good, Wentz,” Andy says with a nod and ruffles Pete’s hair. Pete’s still a little too preoccupied to do anything other than nod and a quiet noise of agreement.

Andy starts walking to the stage with Joe following shortly behind them, head twisting and turning trying to take it all in. Pete can relate.

Pat doesn’t take a step next to her, and Pete bites her lips and turns to her.

Her eyes are soft and mouth open a little like she doesn’t realize it yet. City lights are in her eyes as she takes in their stage. She stops before she turns to Pete.

“Wow, Pete,” Pat says, breathless. Her mouth opening and closing like she has more to say but isn’t sure what. Pat takes another breath and a gentle smile rises with it, “This is amazing.”

Pete feels her own smile pull at her lips, and she wants to say _I’m glad you think so_. Or, _you bet it is. This wasn’t easy to book,_ but what comes out instead is: “I thought you might like it.”

Pat’s eyes widen with her smile and she reaches for Pete’s hand, knitting their fingers together.

“Well,” Pat whispers, and it takes Pete a second to realize they’ve both leaned and Pat’s face is a breath away from Pete’s. “You thought right.”

Pete opens her mouth, words on the tip of her tongue and begging to be poured out, when Joe calls for them with an eloquent: “Hurry the fuck up!”

Pat pulls away, but she’s still smiling softly, hand in Pete’s as she pulls her along and to the stage.

Afterwards, Pete will call it the best show they’ve ever played, and they fill it with _their_ songs.

The place fills to maximum capacity, a courtesy playing on a weekend in an eternally busy city, and audience interacts with them. They cheer after each song and move along to every beat they send out into the air.

Pat sings like she’s weightless, a being grounded solely by her ability to weave magic into melody. Joe fingers her guitar strings with practiced ease so careful she almost makes the act look easy as she twist wire through her fingers, creating the right notes to tie in with Pat’s voice. Andy doesn’t so much as play their drums as they define them: give them meaning through exercise and movement, provide the object purpose with each calculated strike to blend with the rest of them.

Pete lets her fingers flow over her bass and it’s like finding a second home in the reverb of the music through the speakers, in Pat’s voice from her left, Joe to her right, and Andy behind them all: a circle of creation.

Pat sings and every few notes Pete finds herself wondering over towards her, brushing their shoulders, or leaning into the mic together as the warmth of the stage rushes them on.

When the final note is struck, the lights dim and the crowd _erupts_.

The venue shifts, and Pete realizes it’s because the audience has rushed onto the stage and broken it.

Pete laughs, covers her mouth in awe. She glances over to find Pat doing the same with Joe pulling her back by her arms, eyes wide like she can’t believe it either. Andy stops long enough to walk over and grab Pete, pulling her back from where she realizes her footing was slipping.

The audience is full of drunk cheering and laughter, and Pete turns around to her band, matching incredulous looks on each of them when Pete says, awestruck, “We’ve made it.”

She’s not sure who moves first, but then they fall forward together into a hug: laughing and sighing like they can’t believe it.

A few minutes later security comes to help escort them out, Pat’s wide eyes locking on Pete as she mouths _what the hell_ and Pete cackles, and they pile they’re stuff into the van. An after party the last thing on any of their minds, and also made impossible by the sirens headed their direction most likely responding to a safety call.

Pete falls into the back with a dreamy sigh. Pat crawls in behind her.

“That was amazing,” Pat whispers, awed, curling into Pete’s side and whispering in her ear. “They broke the _stage_.”

Pete turns to face her and lifts a hand to brush her thumb against Pat's cheek with a giggle.

“We’ve made it.” Pete whispers, and Pat’s smile glows.

Joe’s still screaming in the front seat, bouncing up and down as Andy steers them back onto the road with a quiet type of enthusiasm.

Pete reaches for Pat’s hand and tangles their fingers together as they watch the stars shine from the van window.

“We’ve made it,” Pat echoes back, but she whispers like she’s talking to the stars, so Pete doesn’t say anything. She squeezes Pat’s hand instead.

From the gentle look that blossoms over Pat’s face, it’s enough.

                                                                                                         ------

The tour ends.

The tour ends and Pete watches as each of them are dropped off at their own houses: broken apart after what seems like a lifetime of playing and living together. It’s a strange feeling, but she knows she’s prone to codependency.

Andy’s the first to get dropped off, and unloads their stuff with a smile and wink.

“Catch you guys later.” Andy says, like it isn’t an ending, but a beginning of something. Pete lets herself hold onto the hope.

Pat’s next and Pete gets out with her and helps unload her guitar and suitcase. Pete wants to say so much, but the words get lost somewhere between her mind and tongue, meaning torn between the purgatory of her throat.

Pat sets her stuff on her driveway with a sigh and nod as she wipes her hands together. When she looks up she meets eyes with Pete.

Joe had mentioned something about a recording deal on their way back early this morning. Something about an agent Pete doesn’t remember contacting, but wants to give them a try anyway. They road the high until the sun had settles and the drop offs started.

It’s not the end, Pete knows. They have promise, prospects and potential. They’re going places: together. It doesn’t stop her chest from aching when Pat grabs her hand and squeezes like it’s a _seen you soon_ instead of _goodbye_.

“Pete Wentz,” Pat says, holding their hands in front of them together and squeezing. “You changed my _life_. And right now, I’m pretty fucking thankful for it.”

 _Wedding vows,_  Pete thinks and promptly chokes, making a pained noise that only makes Pat smile wider as she moves towards Pete.  
  
Pat leans in and kisses Pete’s cheek. It’s light and breathy, petal pink lips ghosting over skin, but suddenly Pete feels like she’s on fire.  
  
Pat leans back and she’s blushing. Pete opens her mouth to say something meaningful and profound and definitely not fueled by _I love you so much I think I may make the sun explode_ , but Joe leans out the window.  
  
“Fuck yeah, Wentz! Get it!”  
  
Pete blushes bright red and her tongue catches as she stutters. Pat laughs and flips Joe off without even looking at her.  
  
“Harsh,” Joe mutters behind them, and Pat seems to take that as her cue. She takes a step back and Pete’s hand falls from her’s.

“See you soon,” Pat says, biting her lip. “Summer’s not over yet.”

 _No_ , Pete thinks, stumbling back into the front seat, watching Pat wave and walk towards her house through the window, _it’s not_.

                                                                                                           ------

They’re next practice isn’t even a full week later, but Pete thinks it’s still been too long.

Pete’s spent two days in a nearly catatonic state, burning girls and blush stained cheeks invading her dreams from the keyhole of her journals, but now she’s recharged and ready to get everyone back together.

Joe snorts, tired and exasperated, when Pete calls her about it.

“Pete,” Joe sighs into the phone, and devolving into a yawning, “We’ve literally been apart for maybe three days total. It’s not like we had a break-up. Call your girlfriend and arrange a practice time if you’re so bored.”  
  
Pete doesn’t even have time to correct her because Pete’s heart got caught in her throat somewhere after _girlfriend._ Pete swallows and grumbles into the phone when she realizes Joe’s hung up on her.

That’s how Pete ends up stealing Joe’s van to pick up Pat for a small practice session.

Pat walks out of her house with a tank top and shorts that leave little to the imagination as her milky thighs are put on display. Pete swallows.

“Hey,” Pat says as Pete nearly falls out of the driver's seat. Pete catches herself with an embarrassed smile as she leads Pat to the back where Pete’s bass is sitting, “Hey yourself.”

Pete reaches in to grab her case and she slips on the bar, her bag falling onto the concrete below.

“Fuck,” Pete hisses, setting her case down and straightening.

“Sorry. Shit, _ow_. I just-”

Pete runs her hands down her shirt and turns. She finds Pat holding one of her newer journals, eyes wide as they scan across the page it’s fallen open to. The rest of her face obscured by the book.

For a moment, Pete doesn’t feel anything past cold. It’s when her mind starts chanting _no no no_ at a steady rate that she snaps into action.

She rips the book away from Pat like it’s fire and Pete’s not the one burning. Pete holds it to her chest with a hiss, all teeth and fear dressed as fury, “That’s _private_.”

Pat’s staring at Pete like she’s seeing her for the first time and Pete feels _coldcoldcold._

“Are those about me?” Pat asks, quiet and expression carefully blank.

Pete’s shaking her head and backing away as Pat steps closer until her knees hit the van, and she falls in. She doesn’t trust herself enough for a verbal reply.

“Burning and blue and- _Pete_ ,” Pat’s voice is a near plea as she corners Pete against the van, leans up into her. “Pete, the...you talked about Chicago and glowing and did you-”

“I said it’s private,” Pete snaps, shrinking under the pressure and refusing to show it but Pat sees right through her.

“You,” Pat blinks at her. “You never said.”

Pete’s stomach drops as the cold fades and all she’s left with are useless words and the burning in her chest.

“I-”

There’s a lot of things Pete is semi-prepared for: Pat shooting her down with a look of disgust, Pat laughing in her face and quitting the band, Pat accusing Pete of perving on her and leaving Pete in the dust.

What she is in no way prepared for is Pat leaning forward trying to catch Pete’s lips with her own. Pete jumps back so quickly she kicks Pat’s thigh.

“We can’t,” Pete says, scrambling into the van and falling over herself trying to scoot back further and away from Pat in front of her.

Pat follows, crawls up and after her with a steady expression, focused and too calm for situation, and before Pete knows it she’s backed against the front seat with Pat crowding her only exit.

“Why not?” Pat asks, curious and coy, unrelenting in the same way she’s been with everything else.

“We just can’t.” Pete repeats, desperate for Pat to understand.

Pat tilts her head, eyes lowering until they’re staring at Pete’s lips. Pete’s breath hitches.

“Give me a good reason then,” Pat says, not quite a whisper, but quiet enough to be something meant just for Pete. “I did just read how much you think about this.”

Pete fumbles, words twisting in her mind and dying in her throat as Pat begins to smile, slow and soft.

Pat leans in closer so that Pete can feel her breath ghosting over her lips, and the words finally surface in a near shout, too loud for how quiet the world is around them: “You’re seventeen.”

Pat laughs, a quiet careful noise that sounds like something too dangerous for Pete to name.

“Try again.” Pat says, nearly in Pete’s lap.

She’s butterfly eyelashes and flushed cheeks, pale and pink in the right places, dressed in false coyness and unabashed hunger as she seats herself in Pete’s lap: unrepentant and tearing through each of Pete’s excuses like she knows Pete well enough to know when she’s bluffing.

It’s not fair, how she can tear down everything Pete’s built and then build up from the ashes, and for a moment Pete almost hates her for it.

Pat is shining, the moonlight from the van window highlighting every angelic feature, and Pete thinks she’s burning against the back seat.

Pete wants to scream, wants to thrash around and grab Pat by the shoulders and shake her until she _understands_. Until she finally sees Pete for what she is and sees how they’re destined for damnation before they even begin.

Instead she reaches for the hate from earlier and pulls it up into a sneer. She feels her lip curl backwards until she’s all teeth: a dangerous thing Pat needs to be wary of.

“Because you’re you,” Pete says. She intends harsh and cutting, but the words don’t come out right.

Her throat gives when the words finally come, and it shifts them into something else. She intends to send Pat flinching back and pulling away from her until she won’t even meet her eyes and finally _sees_ , but it doesn’t work.

The words come out hushed, instead. Reverent and breathless like Pat’s name is a prayer to be whispered, and Pete doesn’t have the courage to say it.

Pete’s shaking. Can feel her body vibrating against the seat: too much revealed, too much given. Too much seen, and she’s shaking with it.

Her throats dry, voice cracked and used up, and the words just- stop. For once in her life the words are gone and everything she’s ever written is forgotten.

Pat lifts her eyes to meet Pete’s and the world stops its rotation.

“Yeah,” Pat murmurs, reaches up to tilt Pete’s chin down with her fingers and leans in as Pete’s eyes flutter shut, “and that’s why I’m doing this.”

Pat’s lips brush her’s and the world _ignites_.

The world fizzles out around the edges, smudges around the sides until it's nothing but Pat's lips and breath and tongue.

Pat kisses like she's in love. Slow and sweet and teasing until she pulls Pete in closer and transition into needy and desperate like she's afraid she's going to loose something. Pat's lips are warm against her's, soft and careful and nothing like the teeth she pushes down onto Pete's bottom lip.

Pete knows they’ve only been kissing for at most a few minutes, but Pat taste like sugar and spice and everything nice, and it feels like hours. Pete opens her lips and thinks she’s found paradise in the heat of Pat’s pretty pink mouth.

She falls into it. Pete feels like she’s submerged in honey: slowed and sweet as she licks into Pat’s mouth and earns a breathy whimper in response.

Pat’s in her lap, hips braced over hips as Pat fists the tops of Pete’s shirt in her hands. Pete comes up for breath but Pat doesn’t stop. Her lips wonder from her’s and draw across Pete’s collarbone. Teeth nip and lick at her skin and Pete knows she’ll have marks tomorrow. She throws her head back with a groan before the thought truly strikes. When it does, it’s enough to have her straightening up and pulling Pat off gently.

“Pete, what-,” Pat starts, falling back onto Pete’s knees, and suddenly Pete’s the one breathless.

Pat’s hat has fallen off during the beginning of their kiss, leaving her hair a wild mess that only serves to highlight the flush of her cheeks and swollen lips. She’s glowing and sitting in Pete’s lap like she wants to be there. Pete blinks.

Heavy lidded eyes scan Pete’s face, and Pete doesn’t have enough willpower to try and hide anything now. Pat relaxes in her grasp and wraps her arms around Pete’s neck.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” Pete says, tries to keep the desperate edge out of her voice but to no avail. Pat bites her lips and blushes, nods.

“Me too,” Pat whispers. Her smile is gentle and intimate as she strokes a thumb under Pete’s chin. Pete leans into her hand.

“So,” Pat starts, a wicked grin curling her lips. “How long do you think it’ll take Joe to kill us when she find out we made out in the back of her precious van?”

Pat swallows up Pete’s concerned noise with her lips.

Pete closes her eyes and lets herself melt.

                                                                                                       ------  


The next official band practice is conducted in the heart of Chicago in a producer’s shiny silver office.

They get a record deal. _Fall Out Boy_ scrawled on every page of a white paper contract and made official in black ink.

Promises of an album and tour are made in the print as they sign their names in pretty black ink to the soul sucking papers below. The soul selling part overshadowed by the print promising _their own_ album and _their own_ tour. Pete still isn’t quite sure how any of this happened.

Andy leads them out of the studio and Pete shakes hands on their way out, minds her _sirs_ and _ma'ams_ and whatever other kiss-up methods she can think of.

The door closes behind them, and the moment after the hatch _clicks_ Pete’s screaming at the top of her lungs.

Joe meets her in the middle and runs up for a hug, picking Pete up and swinging her around: both of them switching between screaming and laughing.

Andy’s smiling, wider than Pete’s ever seen, and runs up to engulf Joe and Pete into a group hug. Pat stares. She blinks like she’s coming out of a dream, her mouth opening into a very pretty _O_.

“We-” Pat starts, scans each of their faces like she’s daring them to correct her, “did it. We’re getting an _album_.”

Andy extends and arm and pulls her into the rest of them with a laugh. Pat’s awe has spread into a smile as she looks between them all. It’s contagious.

“Our _own_ album,” Pete says, pushing herself out of the hug to pull Pat along with her. Pete wraps an arm around Pat’s waist and uses her other hand to tilt Pat’s chin up.

“We made it.” Pete says and Pat’s amazed giggle fills the limited space between them. Pete leans forward and closes it with her lips.

Joe whistles and Andy laughs and Pete feels Pat’s lips stretched into a grin against hers.

Pete pulls back enough to bury her face into Pat’s shoulder.

“Golden ticket,” Pete whispers against Pat’s neck, and places a kiss there for good measure when Pat tilts her head back to laugh.

They fall into each other as they make their way back to the van. Joe’s shoulder brushing Pat’s and Pete’s hip knocking Andy’s, and it all just _fits_.

The van door closes and Pete falls into Pat’s lap, head tilted back to watch the sun through the window.

They’ve got the world opening up in front of them with a star to light their way.  
  
Pat laughs again and Pete reaches for a journal.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (If you caught all the Soul Punk references: Bless you to high heaven.) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and Kudos are MUCH appreciated and I'm rhymesofblau on tumblr.


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